Puffalumps and Weasels
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Two shot. An injured Sam. A double dose of Bobby's painkiller and a worried/protective/sweet-hearted Dean
1. Chapter 1

PUFFALUMPS

AND

WEASELS

BY: Karen B.

Summary: Two shot. An injured Sam. A double dose of Bobby's painkiller and a worried/protective/sweet-hearted Dean.

Disclaimer: Kripke birthed the powerful, beautiful bull…I just like to jump on, and enjoy the eight-second ride -- every chance I get. Ouch! Dusts self off and stands.

Note: Written just 'cause I wanted a loopy, confused, hallucinating, Sam and a protective, tender, brutally handsome, Dean.

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Left foot -- shuffle.

Right foot -- stagger.

Sam stopped to gain his balance -- his direction.

North. South.

Up. Down.

Side to side.

Wax on.

Wax off.

Not even a damn landmark to clue him in.

"Dean, he called feebly.

No answer.

Not so much as a breeze.

He had to find his way out.

Taking in a small breath, Sam moved on, shivering with cold. Not understanding why he was shirtless and barefoot, only wearing blue jogging pants bottoms. Right now, he was definitely 'not' smarter than a Fifth Grader. He'd at least figured out where he was -- well sort of. He was in a dark, narrow tunnel, the air thick and foul -- hard to breathe. Had he been swallowed whole by some mythological beast -- a whale perhaps? How was he going to get out of here? Felt like he'd been searching for an exit for days, weeks -- maybe a lifetime. The passageway was long, a tight corridor going on and on. He stretched his arms out full length on either side of him, feeling along the cold as marble walls. This was no monster -- he was in a hallway. Sam was scared and alone, sometimes walking on his own two feet -- other times crawling on hands and knees

The hallway and everything around him kept changing.

Twisting.

Contorting.

Tangling, and spinning faster and faster.

Only one thing remained the same. A moving shadow -- a presence roaming the walls and following his every move. Sam's senses were a clouded jumble. Whatever was after him was creepy. Only question he had -- was the thing creepy good, or creepy bad?

The scenery flipped again, and Sam found himself lying flat on his back, floating in a licorice black canvas of nothingness, only hearing noises. A door opening and closing. Someone fumbling in a box or small drawer. The shaking rattle of jellybeans in a bottle. Scissors slicing through material. Liquid being poured, spilling to the ground… the word 'fuck,' followed by a sharp needle-like pain to his belly, burning hot like the sun.

"Gaaaa!" Sam cried out.

"Easy. Easy. I'm sorry. Son of a bitch...you can feel that?"

Sam mumbled an answer even he couldn't understand, peering out through scarcely slit eyes. A ghostly hand reached to touch him on the arm, shoulder, and comb through his hair.

Sam sucked in a breath, barely able to turn his head from side to side, desperate to escape the creepy fingers that seemed to be roaming every part of his personal space.

"Where 'm I?"

"Not so sure where you are Toto, but I'm right here with you. You're doing great." The voice sounded out of breath. "Almost done here. You coming out of it?"

"Not telling you any…" Sam swallowed, his throat feeling parched. "…Anything."

"That's my boy" The voice gave a tiered, but proud sounding laugh.

Things were changing again.

He felt sick -- and worse.

Weightless.

Floating.

Falling through stars.

Dodging shooting comets.

"Dean," Sam called out through the loneliness of space, but Dean wasn't there.

He was lost.

The temperature fluctuated like rapid-fire.

Scorching hot, then deadly cold.

His father's drill-sergeant voice kept booming inside his head -- calling out survival tactics.

Stay awake.

Rely on your instincts.

Sustain your body -- first aid, shelter, water, food. Always carry salt, holy water, matches, knife, gun -- make sure your boots fit. How disappointed would his father be with him now? He had non of the above, not even his boots. Lot of good they would do him anyway in a universe of nonexistence.

"Dad," Sam mumbled. "Dad, help me."

"Man, kiddo, we really have a problem here, "a tentative voice whispered in his ear."System's check, Sam. Dad's gone, buddy, remember?" the voice sounded sad, anxious.

Before Sam could try to remember, he was tumbling. Nothing added up as the universe's pull slammed him into rock -- lights out.

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Left foot -- shuffle.

Right foot -- stagger.

Sam tromped down a muddy road, large raindrops bombarding his back. Rotting corpses lay scattered along the side of the road, pieces of dripping flesh hanging from the branches of swaying trees. Horrified, Sam paused, looking skyward, desperate to get the image out of his head. He closed his eyes. At least the rain hitting his face was cooling his sweaty brow.

His eyes fluttered open, and a spark of bright light appeared, nearly blinding him.

"You awake?" A sad, gruesome face now hovered close to his. "Hey?" Green eyes peered at him -- questioning. "You still somewhere over the rainbow?" A hand brushed against his cheek doing no harm -- but Sam cowered anyway. "Shhh. Shhh." The sweat clinging to his brow ran down into his eyes, blurring his vision further. "Try not to pass out again, huh? I'm getting lonely here, man."

"What?" Sam stared, confused as the face above him grew, and stretched like someone was playing with a glob of Silly Putty. Sam watched in sick fascination. When the thing finally stopped morphing, Sam found himself glaring up at a half human, half weasel-like animal. Buldging eyes, pointy nose, rounded ears, extra long neck. "Stay away," Sam whimpered.

What terrible demon had come to devour him? His body quaked. heart-stopping fear racing through him. Weasel-guy gripped his hands. The touch-felt cold, wrong. In a rush of frantic moves, Sam tried to run, kicking, and thrashing.

"You need to calm down." Weasel-guy cursed and growled like a hound from hell, tightening his grip.

"No! No!: Sam slammed his eyes shut.

"You're not supposed to be getting so excited!" The voice, familiar -- yet strange.

Sam tried to open his eyes to make out better who had a hold of him, but couldn't. More words were said, but they were chaotic and murky, the voice echoing all around. He felt trapped, closed in. Sam clenched his jaw, fought hard. He only wanted to be left alone. To sleep. He knew he was losing the fight, not in control of his own body, yet fear drove him to keep fighting -- eyes blinking and fluttering.

"C'mere." Weasel-guy -- or whatever the thing was -- raised him up, scooted behind him, propped him against its chest, and wrapped strong arms around him.

"This can't be right. Wrong, all wrong." Sam bulked.

"Damn it you're strong. What have you been eating? Experimental growth hormones? Stop. Bro! Just stop it!"

Sam settled some, more out of exhaustion than anything. His scarecrow of a brain was trying to tell him something -- his heart too. Something important -- but he didn't know what. All he knew was he'd stumbled into a nightmare, and the more he fought to escape the weaker he got. Everything was one spinning gray, and mysterious cloud. The gray puff just kept pushing down on him harder and harder, until the voice faded, and the hands that held him fell away.

For a while, it was peaceful, black, and silent. But only for a while.

Left foot -- shuffle.

Right foot -- stagger.

He was back on the muddy path, the cooling rain, now thick, and warm. He looked down. His heart nearly stopped when he realized the puddles he'd been sidestepping were not full of water, but full of red -- blood red. Where the hell was he? What rodent hole had he fallen into? A strange, confusing world where the sky bled and the scenery changed like the price of gas. He concentrated on staying calm. Staying on his feet.

One slow step.

Take a breath.

Another slow step.

Take a breath.

Step.

And breathe.

Step.

And breathe.

All the while, a whisper floated on the wind, that same familiar voice Sam couldn't place. He shivered hard, crossing his arms tight around his mid-section and kept moving. Staggering along, confused, cold, somehow knowing someone was watching him -- green, steady eyes, studying his every move.

"Hunted?" The word drifted out clamped teeth.

Was he being hunted?

He heard creaking footsteps, felt something move next to him. He was on his back again. What the hell.

"You're okay," A memory brushed past his foggy brain. "Quiet, now." Warm breath gushed near his ear, almost comforting.

"Where's my brother?" Sam whispered, barely taking in any air, moving toward the feel of that something almost recognizable. "Dean?" he called uncertainly.

"Right here. It's going to be all right, do you know where you are now?" A hand rested against his cheek.

"I don't…" Sam tried to force his eyes open, but they were sticky and glued shut. "…Don't remember."

"Nothing? Come on, kid. It's been over a day and a half." The voice pressed. "You can do better than that."

"Guh." Sam cringed, clutching at his mid-section, feeling some sort of thick binding there.

Familiar hands took his, pulling them down to his sides.

"Don't touch that you'll ruin my awesome needlework."

At the cool touch, Sam's eyes unglued -- wet -- blinking -- searching.

He was sprawled across a bed, still shirtless, barefoot and still wearing the thin, blue jogging pants. Sam glanced around, slowly focusing. He was surrounded by four gray walls. They flashed continuous white -- like a strobe light. Everything in the room seemed to come alive. An air conditioning unit…table…chairs…dressers… mirror…a beer bottle…the remote control, even the Holy Bible. All equipped with arms, legs and teeth. The monster's were seemingly made out of parachute-type material and feather-light -- floating around the room like living balloons.

_'Were these some new kind of supernatural beings to fight?' _Sam hazily wondered. That's all he needed right now.

"Gawd," Sam moaned.

"Come on now." A hand came to his forehead. "Your skin is burning hot."

"Cold." Sam squinted, seeing something odd -- more backward than the living, floating objects. The flash of green in the bulging eyes looked sort of familiar -- but not. "Dean?" Sam questioned.

"Of course." The strange face smiled.

A hand slipped under Sam's head, lifting and a glass was pressed to his lips. "Drink this."

"No, it's not…not you," Sam cried, every muscle tight with agitation, knocking the glass away from the hand.

"Damn it, you're dehydrated." The odd face frowned -- hard. "You need to drink something."

"Nonono!" Sam lurched forward, easily stopped by a firm palm to his chest, effortlessly pushing him back down on the bed. "Pl ... please…" Sam's head tossed back and forth on the pillow, the only resistance his weakened body seemed to be able to muster. "Help." Sam scrunched his eyes closed.

"I am helping, but man, not a good sign here." The hand stayed pressed to his chest -- trembling. "If you don't start drinking soon…" A heavy sigh filled the room. "…I'm going to have to syringe something into you. Not good times, bro."

The voice sounded like Dean -- sounded sad, but certainly didn't match the weasel-like face. Sam felt an edge of regret, however, his belly throbbing, body soaked in sweat, and muscles hurting all made it hard for him to care.

He drifted for hours, days -- who knew. Only rousing a few times by something cold bathing his face, neck, and chest. Sam kept his eyes shut. Desperate to figure out what kind of weirdness was going on. Maybe he'd find the answers in the dark.

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He licked his lips, his throat badlands dry, body on fire. A loud thump startled Sam and he jerked, eyes blinking but to heavy to stay open.

"Sorry," The voice whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"Water," Sam croaked, trying to swallow past the rawness of his throat.

"Finally." A glass of water was immediately pressed to his lips. "Here. Drink slowly."

This time Sam didn't protest, making sure to keep his eyes shut. No way had he wanted to see the awful face he knew to be filling his request. As long as he kept his eyes closed he could pretend it really was Dean there with him. Sam drank a few swallows, a strange gurgle sound emitting from the back of his throat when he was done.

"Ugh," Sam groaned -- the action -- a whole body experience leaving him weak and quivering.

"Friggin' pills." Gentle hands scooped Sam up cradling him, covering him with something warm, and soothing damp hair off his forehead. "Feeling any better?"

"Worse," Sam muttered, weighty, hot and limp in the man creatures hold.

"Fantastic," the voice grumbled, obviously dissatisfied with the answer. "Sleep," he ordered.

Sam wanted to fight and run but couldn't, too weak he simply blacked out.

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

PUFFALUMPS

AND

WEASELS

By: Karen B.

Summary: Conclusion

Thank you so kindly for your time!

Be well and safe!

Sunshine, even in rain,

Karen

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The ground was dry and dusty red. Where the hell was he now? Mars? At least weasel-guy was gone. Sam could think of only one thing to do. Get out of this place, before any other strange creatures showed up. Something told him he had to move fast. He started to run, but fell to his knees upon the cracked ground -- no, not ground, carpet -- red carpet. He tried to get up, scrabble to his feet. Something invisible seemed to have a hold of him, Sam struggled to break free, fear choking away his breath.

His eyes widened, turning his head, he saw a large rock to his left, beyond that a forest. No. wasn't a forest was a hallway.

"Uhhhh." Everything kept flipping back and forth.

Forest.

Deep space.

Dark hallway.

Mars.

Room.

Sam wished this crazy up-down, flip-flop world would figure out which -- he wasn't found of roller coasters

Forest.

Okay.

If he could shake the thing that held him and make it into the trees ---.

"Sam! Sammy, are you seeing me?"

Crap, green eyes was back.

Whoever or whatever this thing was, it tried to take on the shape of his brother, could time travel, jumping from place to place -- just like Sam. And right now Weasel-Dean had a stronghold on his arms, was keeping him from the shelter of the trees.

"Sam, do you hear my voice?"

Something else just occured to Sam -- the half-human creature knew his damn name.

For a second, Sam broke the hold and dropped back down to the ground. Wildly glancing around, he realized the forest had been replaced once again, by the four gray walls. Living walls that bellowed and puffed in and out with life. He took note of a clock, a picture of a cow, a swimsuit calendar -- 1999. What really held Sam's interest, however, was a door. Sam mustered up as much strength as he could, getting to his wobbly feet, and darting for the exit -- fleeing the Wonderland pages of the Lewis Carroll book he'd fallen into.

"Son of a bitch!" Weasel-Dean cursed in the usual tone, but still the voice did'nt fit the creepy looking face.

More words floated around, but Sam couldn't make them out. Just as Sam grabbed the doorknob, Weasel-Dean leapt on him, dragging him across the ground and plopping him down on something soft but lumpy.

Sam's jaw clenched as he stared up into the large green eyes. He wanted to try again to escape, but was too tired, and hot. No -- not hot -- cold. He was freezing cold, shivering even, and every inch of him ached, especially his stomach.

Realizing he was lying back on the bed, his right fist full of sheets, Sam groaned. Weasel-Dean leaned farther over him, hands clamped over his wrists, securing him in place. Sam's gaze shifted back to the door, readying himself to catch a breath, and run.

"Listen to me, bro. Just listen!" Weasel-Dean punctuated his demand, giving Sam's wrists a little jerk. "Sam." The thing's voice shook with fear -- that was odd. "Look at me, man! I mean it!"

What else could he do? Sam did as he was told, his eyes sliding back to look at the face lingering above him. The face wavered in and out of focus like he was looking through the bottom of a glass boat.

Dean.

Weasel.

Dean.

Weasel.

Dean.

Dean.

Dean.

Sam shut his eyes -- blackness spinning, his body trembling -- slowly he reopened them.

Still Dean.

Sam's fear quickly turned to surprise.

"D-Dean, it's you?"

"Of course it's me. Who'd you think? The friggin' Easter Bunny?"

"More…like…" Sam's breath caught in his throat as Dean morphed back into Weasel- guy.

"Like what?" Dean panted, still keeping Sam pinned to the bed, only slightly loosening his hold.

"You look…" Sam stared vacantly. " I don't know --

"Awesomely, handsome?"

_Sam shook his head. _"No, weird. Long neck, pointy nose, bulging eyes -- weird, like a weasel."

"Sam," Dean huffed. " I see what I see, you see what you see -- see." Weasel- Dean looked half- hurt, half- amused.

"You're a weasel." Sam licked his dry, cracked lips, struggling to understand. Maybe he should trust Weasel-Dean; obviously, there was no getting away from him. He was too weak and he knew it. "What's…what's happening to me?" he asked.

"Dude, your brain is having a going out of business sale."

"What do you mean?"

"Bobby -- he really did give you some wacky stuff, kiddo." Weasel-Dean looked sad. "You're having a bad reaction to the pain meds, not to mention the fever and infection."

"Uhhh." Sam moaned, the bed swaying back and forth like a stormy wind had whipped through the room.

"Sam what is it?" Weasel-Dean whispered, uneasily.

"Bed's moving," Sam informed, pressing further into the mattress

"I told you, you're hallucinating." Weasel-Dean let go of Sam's wrists. "You're such a sasquatch." He sat back, uncurling Sam's fingers from the sheet, curling his own around them instead. " Damn it, I shouldn't have given you that double dose, " he mumbled, a frustrated breath escaping his lips."Trust me, man." Weasel-Dean leaned in closer.

"Gaaa!" Sam arched away from the awful face.

"Sorry, sorry," Weasel-Dean said, quickly pulling back. "Look, pal, whatever it is you're seeing -- Sam, it's not real. You believe me?"

Sam wanted to believe, he was sick, weak, defenseless. At least if this was really Dean he could relax, rest, but something inside was telling him not to. He turned his head, glancing around, trying to pick up the scattered pieces of his jumbled mind. For a moment there was a blank page. A sort of emptiness that nearly choked him. Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight, quickly opening them again. He canvassed the area, and the blank page began to slowly fill -- one color at a time. Four gray walls. Mauve curtains. Thirteen-inch television. Scratched dresser. An over-stuffed sitting chair. Dean's half-eaten Gyro sitting on a small dinette table. All of which decided, once again to sprout arms, legs, teeth -- puffing up and floating around the room. The damn things were back

"Puffalumps," Sam mumbled, giving the monsters a name.

"What?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Every thing in the room keeps coming to life, floating around"

"Sam? It's okay. Can you trust me on that?"

"Dean." Sam turned back, squinting, Weasel-Dean was gone -- morphed back into his awesomely handsome brother. "Trying," he mumbled.

"Good, keep trying," Dean sighed. "The drugs should be wearing off soon." Dean winced. "Sorry about that."

"What? Why?"

"Can't give you anymore of that shit. You'll be in a lot of…"

"Pain," Sam interrupted, barely clinging on to understanding.

"What do you remember before this?" Dean asked.

"I…I…" Memories swirled and churned, and Sam's head felt like it'd been mashed -- like potatoes, he shuddered with a groan.

"Take your time, Sam. Try to focus."

"Uh…I…a…" Sam spoke slow, careful, unsure. "A…poltergeist. An old barn, and…" Sam paused to think, eyes straying to the lamp sitting on the moving scratched dresser. The gold-based light puffed up, grew arms, legs, teeth, and floated toward the ceiling. Sam trembled hard. He knew one thing and one thing only. If something had teeth -- that something could bite you.

"Sam." Dean snapped his fingers close to his face. "Eyes up here. On me." Sam turned his head, blinking heavily. "And…" Dean nodded, urging him on.

"And a knife." Sam frowned, laying one hand on his bandaged abdomen.

"Pitchfork." Dean fine-tuned his brother's memory. "Lots of stitches, infection, fever. Bobby's newest high-powered pain meds," Dean filled in further. "Friggin' no paying jobs," he muttered just as his cell rang. "Speaking of." Dean nabbed his phone off the nightstand, narrowly missing the sharp, jagged teeth.

"Dean! Watch out it tried to get you!"

"Sam, I'm fine, I swear." Dean shifted, blocking Sam's view. "Bobby. Yeah, I'm here. Lousy." Dean patted Sam's shoulder and continued talking. "Yes, he's conscious right now. No, still wierding in and out -- mostly out."

Sam closed his eyes, exhausted, listening to the sounds of his heart whooshing in-between his brother's one-sided conversation.

"It's okay. It's not your fault, Bobby. You didn't know, besides, I'm the one who gave him the double dose. Don't scream at me! Because they were pin-sized pills and he's a big kid." Sam felt himself slipping back to sleep. "You think I should?" He heard Dean ask. "Right. If there's no change by then, I'll take him. Thanks, Bobby."

"Hospital?" Sam begged his eyes to open, but they wouldn't.

"Don't worry, Sam, just sleep."

As if Dean's command was a magic spell, everything faded quietly to black

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Sam opened his eyes and sighed, staring at the motel room's ceiling. Everything looked normal, still and silent. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness kept him from doing so.

"Still seeing pink elephants?"

"Not drunk, Dean -- Puffalumps." Sam turned his head toward his brother's voice. "They're away for now," he informed drowsily.

"Thank God." Dean set the magazine he was reading down. "Maybe we should get you to try and eat something."

"That's not gon…gona help much," Sam slurred.

A sudden whoosh -- not his heart this time -- drew Sam's attention back to the ceiling.

"What is it?" Dean's tone nervous.

"Not sure." Sam watched as a thick plum of black smoke swept through the room.

"Sure hope you're not seeing the word 'Red-Rum', kiddo."

"I think…" The ceiling suddenly burst into flames. "Dean!" Sam shot a terrified look at his brother. "The room's on fire!"

"That trumps those words and my awesomely handsome self looking like a ferret," Dean grumbled, jumping up from his chair and heading Sam's way.

"Out! Dean! We have to get out!" Sam gasped curling away from the flames. "Ahhh!" He shrieked as the fire continued to gain and spread throughout the room.

"Sam, stay in control." Dean reached for Sam. " It's just the pain meds. I want you to…"

Before Dean could finish his sentence, Sam unglued himself from his spot, clambering off the bed and breezing past Dean. He ran on wobbly legs toward the door, yanking hard on the handle.

"Sam!" Dean was on him trying to seize hold of Sam's arms, hands, anything, but Sam tugged away with surprising strength.

"We have to get out of here!" Sam grappled again for possession of the door handle -- Dean grappled for possession of Sam.

"I'm going to kill, Bobby, then me," Dean snarled, finally getting hold of Sam's biceps and spinning him around to face him.

"Dean! Dean! Stop!" Sam's body was stiff and rigid, every nerve on sensory overload. "Let me go. We have to go!"

"Sam, you're going to hurt yourself, ruin my stitch job." Dean's grip tightened. "You're flipping-out. Sam!"

"Of course I'm flipping-out, Dean, the room's on fire!" Sam's eyes went wide. "And your arm!" Frantic, Sam tried to slap at the orange-red flames engulfing Dean's left arm.

"Sammy!" Dean steadied his hold, shoving Sam back and fixing him to the wall. "Come on, man! Sam! Snap out of it." Dean gave a hard push, Sam's head thumping against plaster.

"Ouch! Hey!"

"Sorry. Sam, I'm sorry, but you have to listen to what I'm telling you. If I was on fire, don't you think I'd be screaming in pain? Rolling on the floor? Running for the door? Calling 911. Dude! It's…not…real!" Sam was glad Dean was yelling so loud, at least he could hear him over the roar of the flames. "Sam, trust me, take a deep breath."

"But, Dean."

"Do it." Dean gave the order, shaking Sam's shoulders.

"Yeah. Okay. Okay." Sam struggled to restrain himself, taking in a deep breath, all the while staring at Dean's flaming arm.

"Now say it with me, Sam. It…" Dean stopped and waited. No response. "Sam -- it," he repeated louder.

"It," Sam parroted, his knees growing weak.

"Is not real," Dean breathed out in a rush.

"Is not real." Sam strained to stay standing, dwelling on the facts as he poked at the orange flames surrounding Dean's arm with a curious finger. There was no horrible pain. No burning heat. Dean stood before him calm, collect, studying Sam like a bug under a microscope. "It's not real," Sam repeated, cocking his head to one side. "Not real." He glanced around the room trying to make sense of what he was seeing. "I'm losing my mind."

"I wish our lives were that easy. I wish I could lock you up safe and sound, Sam. In one of those white, soft padded cells. Where no bitch poltergeist or anything else could ever hurt you again. Three squares a day, cute nurses, and a friendly game of Chess every Sunday." Dean gave a hint of a smile. "Sam, the fire, none of what you are seeing is real -- well…except this handsome brute." Dean's hint of a smile brightened. "It's the painkiller, bro," he reminded.

"What kind of painkiller?" Sam asked, trembling slightly.

"The kind you're never taking again. Come on let's just sit down, okay?"

"Okay." Sam's legs twitched and he sagged toward the carpet.

"Whoa there. Not here, man. Think you can walk over to the bed?."

"I think so." Sam cringed, he wasn't used to feeling so brainless -- so out of control. He didn't move, only pressed his back further against the wall -- eyes still wide and darting around.

"I think I should help," Dean said in a low voice. Seeming to recognize his brother's on going confusion, he peeled Sam's rigid form gently away from the wall. "Come with me." He wrapped an arm around Sam's waist. "My arm still on fire?" Dean cautiously asked.

"No." Sam tripped over his own bare feet. "But we just walked across a giant pit of snakes."

"Delightful," Dean growled. "Man, why can't you hallucinate about, big breasted women, wearing black fishnet stockings, having euphoric sex."

"Maybe you should take the pills next time," Sam deadpanned

"Maybe so." Dean forced a smile.

"That's sick." Sam staggered the last few steps.

"You good?" Dean asked, lowering Sam in slow motion to lay back on the bed.

"Good." Sam's arms fell limp at his sides.

He was done -- like a burnt dinner-- done. It was hard to keep his eyes open, but he tried. A swirl of black dots filled the room, like a swarm of tiny insects they hit and bounced off the walls

"What do you see now?" Dean stood over Sam -- on guard.

Sam mumbled something unintelligible even to him.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Dean said, placing the back of his hand to Sam's forehead.

"Can't!" Sam snapped. "Nothing makes any sense." He scrubbed vigorously at his eyes trying to clear away the sandstorm of swarming black spots.

"Easy, little brother. You're still sweating with fever," Dean explained.

The black dots ran away, replaced by the Puffalumps swirling above like a mad twister. Every now and again, one would dive bomb him, rush at Dean's head.

"Get away!" Sam flinched, reaching out a shaking hand to bat at the damn things. When he did manage to make contact with one, the Puffalump would burst -- bathing everything blood red. "Too many." Sam moaned, the fight requiring what little was left of his strength. "They won't go away."

"Close your eyes."

"Won't help."

"Sam, take a break." Dean clutched at his waving hands stopping Sam's full-on attack. "Let me try," Dean offered.

"'Kay." Sam dropped his hands to the bed, happy for the help.

For a while Sam watched Dean's battle. Strong, sure hands connecting with every Puffalump that swooped their way; until his eyes grew so heavy with sleep he couldn't watch anymore, and they closed of their own accord. Sam could feel the breeze of Dean's efforts; hear him curse under his breath every now and again. Fighting Puffalumps -- sucked.

"You get 'em?" Sam asked as soon as he felt Dean still.

"Dude, I can't tell."

Sam slit open one eye, scanning the room, his gaze finally falling on Dean

"Did I kick ass?" Dean's brow furrowed.

Sam nodded affirmation.

"Nice job," Sam breathed out a long held breath, eye slowly falling shut.

"Nothing to it, little brother. Just try to sleep. I'll stand watch."

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Dean had fallen asleep on duty, and the Puffalumps had returned. At least they were not dive bombing, only roaming through the smoke and fire -- probably looking for a way out. Sam was clearer now, knew this wasn't real, but still, he didn't like the hallucinations. They were making him dizzy, nauseous, and okay -- he was scared. Not wanting to wake Dean, Sam decided he'd do some roaming of his own. Maybe a little fresh hallway air would clear his drug-laden head.

He sat up, and swung his legs out of bed. His perspective was still screwed up, but he stood anyway ignoring the vertigo that wanted to take him down -- ignoring the fire that didn't burn. Bravely using the flaming walls as a crutch, he made his way soundlessly to the door, unlocking the latch, and quietly pulling on the handle; he stepped out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him.

Sam took two steps, turned and leaned his back against the adjacent room, slumping slowly down to his ass onto the dizzying multicolored carpet. He stretched his legs out before him, arms falling limp at his sides -- palms up. It didn't feel as hot here, a cool breeze floating in through a large open window at the end of the short hall. At least nothing too crazy was happening out here. Sam watched the number three on their motel room door dance about, changing into an M… a W…an E… then back into the number three. Harmless, compared to the room catching fire or inanimate objects puffing up, and growing teeth -- your brother going weasel on you.

Suddenly, the motel door was whipped open and the happily morphing number three was replaced by a very scared, and then very quickly relieved, rumpled older brother.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean spat, the relieved look turning thunderbolt mad.

Dean stepped barefoot out into the hallway and stopped, glancing first one way, then the other.

"Dean!" Sam called out loudly, peering up through his wet bangs that hung down to cover his eyes.

"Tiny hallway, Sam. You don't have to yell," Dean said, taking one small step, and crouching down next to Sam. "The room was on fire again -- wasn't it?" Dean asked sadly.

Sam nodded.

"Let me look at this." Dean's tone full of serious business.

He leaned forward, fingers tenderly feeling the area around Sam's bandaged wound.

"Mmmm." Sam's face twisted.

"Sam?" Dean quickly pulled away**. **"Pain starting to break through?"

"Just a…" Sam breathed. "…Little."

"That's good."

"Not to me." Sam bit into his lower lip.

"Means you're back on the bus."

"Bus?"

"Yeah, that damn field trip you took is finally coming to an end."

Sam's heart beat hard against his chest. He looked around the rotating hallway, then back at Dean, frowning and cocking his head.

**"**I still look like a ferret, pal?" Dean smiled.

"Weasel." Sam smiled back.

"Whatever."

"And no, Dean., you look scrumpdiddleumptious," Sam giggled.

_Dean's brows arched high on his forehead. _"That is so beyond gay."

"I love gay." Sam tilted his head back against the wall, blowing puffs of air out the side of his mouth trying to get his bangs out of his eyes.

"Oh, for the…" Dean sat down, angling toward Sam and helping to brush the damp strands of hair away from his eyes. "Man, little brother, first hallucinations from somewhere over the rainbow, and now you're stoned out of your Cro-Magnon skull." Dean felt Sam's forehead. "You're still hot."

"Not as hot as you, Dean. Chicks all say so," Sam giggled again, his head lolling to rest in the niche under Dean's chin.

"I hate to break up this love fest, Sammy boy, but don't you think we should get you back in the room?"

"No!" Sam stopped giggling, struggling to raise his head only to plop back down. "Dean, please," he whispered. "Don't like the room," Sam slurred. "You go back… I'm fine here. Hallway's safe. No fire. No…"

"Puffalumps and weasels?" Dean smiled, settling down further on the carpet.

"We staying here?" Sam asked, urgently.

"That what you want?"

"Yes."

"Then yes, Sammy, we're staying right here. All night." Dean squirmed. "In this tiny, uncomfortable, crappy hallway."

"Thanks," Sam sighed, and reached up to rub a hand over the top of his brother's head. "Your hair feels like a cotton swab," he giggled, rubbing some more.

"Dude, get off me!" Dean gently smacked Sam's hand away.

"I'm so tired." Sam suddenly got serious, nestling his head more comfortably against Dean's chest.

"Me, too, Sam, go to sleep."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, pal?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"You know…" Sam mumbled a long string of unintelligible words, his body going slack.

"You're such a marshmallow," Dean drawled, laying a protective arm across his brother. "I know, Sammy, and you're welcome."

The end


End file.
